


Downpour

by despommes



Series: Moonbringer [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Biting, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 08:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20355691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/despommes/pseuds/despommes
Summary: And so it is on a chilly, rainy evening that the night owls of the city are treated to the sight of a frantic Exarch sprinting through the downpour, sandaled feet splashing into wide puddles and soaking his robes. He holds his hood in place over his head as he runs, trying to protect his ears from the water. If one were close enough, they would hear as he curses himself under his breath. No one hails him as he passes for he is clearly in a hurry, wherever he is headed in the middle of a midnight storm.





	Downpour

**Author's Note:**

> This revolves around my SMN Keeper of the Moon Miqo'te, Artemesia Andromeda and follows my previous story, A Timeless Lullaby. If you'd like to see a picture of her I have some [here](https://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com/tagged/artemesia+andromeda).
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!

It was fair to say that as of late the Crystarium had been host to many a bizarre scene. With recent events bringing more interesting and strange people through its gates every single day, all one had to do was simply sit back and watch. And so it is on a chilly, rainy evening that the night owls of the city are treated to the sight of a frantic Exarch sprinting through the downpour, sandaled feet splashing into wide puddles and soaking his robes. He holds his hood in place over his head as he runs, trying to protect his ears from the water. If one were close enough, they would hear as he curses himself under his breath. No one hails him as he passes for he is clearly in a hurry, wherever he is headed in the middle of a midnight storm.

_ Careless, forgetful old fool_.

His warrior had returned to him that afternoon from a lengthy stay in the Source. He had been so engrossed in some old, musty tome or other that her hand on his shoulder had taken him by surprise. Her traveling bag had been heavier than normal, and as he’d kissed her to welcome her back she had playfully insinuated there was a gift for him.

“It shall await you in my rooms, once you are finished here for the night.”

As he laid another sweet kiss on her smiling mouth, he had been tempted to abandon his studies in that very moment to spend the rest of the day in her arms. But the work was important, and while he knew she understood it made it no less difficult to watch the Ocular’s doors close behind her. And so he spent the rest of his day wishing he were somewhere else, wondering what it was she’d brought back for him. A new book? Or maybe a trinket she had found while traveling? Another bottle of Hingan rice wine, perhaps?

Tragically, the lack of natural light in the Crystal Tower hindered his ability to judge just how much time passed as he whiled away amongst his books. It was not until he happened to glance at the chronometer on the wall that he realized he was inexcusably and unforgivably _ late. _ Surely when she’d requested he come to see her she had meant sometime around dusk and not scant minutes before the midnight hour. G’raha Tia slammed his book shut, a little harder than he’d meant to, and scrambled to snuff out the desk lamp before he raced out of the Ocular and down the stairs toward the Dossal Gate.

And that was how he came to be as he is now, scurrying through the Crystarium as fast as his legs would carry him. He knows he is dripping all over the stone floor of the Pendants, but the closer he comes to her rooms the less he feels inclined to care. The soggy hood falls back from his ears and it is a cold, wet weight against the back of his neck. It makes him shiver.

He could find her door amongst all the rest with his eyes closed. His feet plant themselves in front of it and he stands there, anxious. The dark wood sits ominously before him, cold and impassive to his wringing hands. Damp knuckles rise to rap, gently, quietly, against the varnished surface.

There is no answer on the other side.

He winces. She is undoubtedly already asleep. She always liked to retire early after a day spent traveling. He _ knew _that, and yet he had still wasted those precious hours wrapped in his own carelessness as the time ticked away. Every second spent with her was dear to him, and every second lost a blow. And she had even been kind enough to bring him a gift. A gift he undoubtedly no longer deserved.

The key she had bequeathed to him turns quietly in the lock. As silently as he could, G’raha slips into the room. He is cautious of the creaking hinges, of the squeak of his wet shoes on the floor. The room is, as he had suspected, hushed and dark. On the kitchen table sits his gift, a basket of beautifully ripe La Noscean oranges. His ears flatten in guilt as he picks one up to bring it to his nose. They smell deliciously sweet and their fragrance has taken the room. He had mentioned to her how much he has missed them since leaving the Source behind. She must have picked them herself, he thinks, and he imagines her lovingly scouring the orchard for the perfect specimens to give him. He bites the inside of his cheek as he places the orange back in the basket. He would wait to enjoy them when she woke, since he hadn’t taken the courtesy of coming to her when she was awake.

His warrior has indeed taken to her bed for the evening. A heavy sleeper, his knocking had failed to rouse her from where she lies tucked cozily in her blankets. Her back faces the room and all he can see is her starry hair fanned out against her pillow. One ear gently flickers as she sleeps. His chest grows tight as he gazes at her, the gentle rise and fall at the curve of her side.

He is dripping all over her floor.

There are clothes for him in her wardrobe, clean and dry and waiting. He shivers as he sheds the soaked through layer of his robes and trades them for a soft, white shirt and a simple pair of breeches. Suddenly, the rain begins to fall harder. It pounds against the glass panes of the closed window. A gentle roll of thunder somewhere in the distance reverberates through the walls.

There is a soft sound behind him, clean sheets over a feather bed followed by a tired sigh. It echoes in his ears. Her voice, hoarse with sleep, calls out to him in a dreamy exhalation of his name.

“Raha?” she all but whispers, nearly lost under the pattering of the rain. Contrite as he is it is enough to blanket his lips in a lovesick smile. He turns around to see her sitting up in her bed, the quilts pooled around her waist. She is attempting to rub the sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hand.

“Apologies, my friend,” he beseeches her. “I fear I lost track of time this evening.”

Her only answer is a tired “Mmm,” and her hand stretches out for him in the dark. He crosses the room to take it, sitting at the edge of her bed. Her fingers are lax and sleep-warm against the crystal of his own.

“Perhaps it is my old age rearing its head.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Nonsense.”

“I am sorry. I should have paid attention to the hour. My carelessness has cost you your entire evening, and after you had gone to the trouble to bring back such a thoughtful gift…”

“Do you like them?” she asks. She cocks her head expectantly.

“I do.” He ghosts his thumb over the pulse in her wrist. “Very much so. Had I only been here to enjoy them with you.”

“They should keep until morning. I can think of worse breakfasts than fresh oranges.”

He hums delightedly at the thought. He lifts her hand up to his lips. Places a brief kiss at her knuckles. “Forgive me?”

She grins at him. “Always.” Her lips find the corner of his mouth and she makes a pinched, concerned sound. “G’raha,” she says, fingers splaying out over his jaw, “you’re absolutely _ frigid_. And your hair is soaked.” Her eyes widen incredulously. “Did you walk all the way here in the rain?”

“To be fair…” He tilts his face into her palm, still warm from her bed. “I ran.”

“Reckless fool,” she mutters fondly. She takes his face in both hands and brings him close. Her searing cheek meets his as she drags her dry lips over the track of crystal there. His tail curls atop the bed close to one of her bent knees. “Whatever am I to do with you?” she says somewhere near the bridge of his nose.

“A kiss,” he suggests, “to warm these old bones.” It makes her chuckle.

“A kiss, he says.” Her mouth hovers torturously close to his own. He can feel her breath fanning out over his skin in soft, humid puffs. Her air tastes of sleep and rain. He but only needs to lean forward an ilm, perhaps less, to taste her in truth. The proximity is intoxicating. He watches her teeth as she smiles up at him. “Do you often wake sleeping ladies in their beds and demand they kiss you?”

“Only the exceptionally lovely ones.”

“Careful, G’raha Tia.” She tilts her face against his. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

The kiss is soft, and blissfully warm. G’raha feels the cold leeching from his skin with each tender slide of her lips against his. From the tips of his ears and down to his toes the heat slowly blooms in his blood, banishing the chill of the storm from his body. He sighs contentedly. He had missed this, missed _ her_. Once upon a time he had weathered an entire century without the gift of her smile or the song of her laughter, and now he could barely tolerate a mere few weeks. To feel her body heat, the welcome weight of her mouth against his own brings him _ home _ again.

It is all sweet kisses and gentle touches, his fingers slowly following the length of her spine, until suddenly it is decidedly _ not_. There is no way to tell what it is that changes the air between them. The rain bearing down even harder outside. The flash of opulent lightning briefly illuminating the room. The following clap of thunder loud enough to rattle the window. She draws away and then he catches the sharp point of her long, feline teeth at his bottom lip like a warning. Fingers curl themselves in his hair and he can _ feel _ the shift in the aether between them. While he can only see little in the dark, he knows that she can see everything, and right now she is looking at him like she wants to devour him.

“Artemesia,” he whispers.

Slowly, moving not unlike a predator who has caught wind of her prey, she lifts herself up on her knees. The hem of her thin nightshirt dangles over her thighs, and it rises higher as she spreads them to perch herself in his lap. His breath is still in his chest. He is almost hesitant to breathe, as if one wrong move could shatter this fragile tension between them. The hands in his hair tilt his head up. Her eyes are hooded as she studies his face; his parted lips and flushed cheeks as he wonders, hopefully, what it is she would ask of him.

“Raha.” Her voice is hoarse as she breathes his name against his ear. Deft fingers pull apart the damp braid of his hair so that it falls around his shoulders. Lips kiss at his temple, over his cheekbone, down the hinge of his jaw. “Tell me, my Raha,” she coos, and he stutters out a lost sound because he _ is _ hers, in more ways than she could possibly know. “May I ask you something?”

He licks at his dry lips. “Anything.”

He can feel her smile against his throat. Her fangs grinning against the soft skin betwixt patches of crystal. “Do you ever think about,” a kiss over his pulse, this one accompanied by the hot lash of her tongue, “what it would be like to make love to me?”

“Oh, _ wicked white_.” Teeth scrape none too gently over tender skin. He cries out, the sound breaking off as her tongue soothes over the bite. “Yes,” he gasps. The blush climbs higher over his face as he admits it. Fingers, crystal and flesh alike, twist themselves in her nightshirt. “Gods, yes.”

That answer earns him a lofty giggle. The air breaks cool over his wet skin. She lifts her head to look at him again. “What did you think about, I wonder? While I was away.”

“I…” He closes his eyes. Too many things race through his mind, and if he has to look her in the eyes he fears he may lose his nerve. “I thought about… your hands. Taking them in mine.” He reaches for her, palm to palm, and interlocks their fingers. She lets him. “Like this. I think about pressing them into your sheets. The sound you would make as I did it. I have thought about what you _ taste _ like.” By the shudder of her lungs, he knows she understands it is not her mouth he speaks of.

Artemesia kisses him again, all fangs and heat and bruising grip. He gives as good as he gets. His tongue licks its way past her teeth and the sharp prick of her canines thrills him.

“I want you,” he murmurs into her open mouth. She moans. “Artemesia, love.”

“You have me.” Gone is the playful tone she’d questioned him in before. Now her voice is high and thin with need. “Raha, you need only take me, I’m _ yours_.”

Another streak of lightning flashes over them. G’raha pulls her tight, pulls her close. Her lips find his cheek as he gently lays her back against her pillows. Thunder crashes around them as he settles above her. His crystal hand holds him upright against the mattress so that he might take in the sight of her below him. Artemesia’s eyes are gleaming pools of black as they roam his face. Her chest heaves, nipples pebbled underneath the thin cotton of her shift. The bed-tousled crown of her hair lies haloed around her head. G’raha bows his head to gently pay a fleeting, tender kiss against her sternum where the wide collar of her nightshirt has left it bare.

There had been lovers before his slumber, and though they did not number many he had cherished and enjoyed his time with them. Had he been the same young man as before he’d have no reservations in laying his hands upon the woman underneath him, but that boy was centuries in the past. One hundred years spent leading people through the brink of extinction had left little time for affections. The people of Norvrandt had depended on him, and the thought of lying with anyone when they looked up to him for survival had never sat right with him. And, truth be told... his heart had been elsewhere.

And so his pulse pounds in his ears when his fingers find the hem of her shirt. As the fabric inches up her body to reveal smooth, silky skin, he takes it upon himself to map her flesh with teeth and tongue. He has dreamt of touching her like this for decades and loved her for even longer. He moves slowly, methodically even, relishing her little gasps. The soft plane of her belly shudders under his fingers. He brushes his lips over the curve of her rib cage, breathing in the familiar scent of her. Cedarwood and medicinal herbs, spring water and ancient, primal magic. G’raha Tia’s eyes flutter closed as he lays a trail of kisses toward the split in her sternum. Nails drag against his scalp, tangling into his damp hair the farther up her body he travels. Her fingers are trembling. Her tail curls in anticipation atop the sheets.

Her thin shift does little to hide her modesty. The delicate material could not have revealed more to his eyes if it had been completely soaked through. When his mouth finds the peak of her right breast underneath the sheer fabric he tastes cotton and sleep and is gifted with a sweet, bitten off moan. Her thighs squeeze tight at his sides. His tongue sweeps over her stiff nipple and she squirms. He treats her left breast with the same affections. He can feel her growing restless below him.

“G’raha, _ please_.”

He grins as he kisses her, revels in the half-growl he can feel deep in her chest. Artemesia’s eyes follow him as he slinks back down her body, down past her navel and between the wings of her hip bones. The lacy bow on the waistband of her smallclothes sits eye-level before him. He mouths at the white silk. Lets the warmth of his breath spread over her skin. As his fingers inch the cloth slowly down her thighs he gently noses through the thatch of soft curls revealed to him. Before he pulls her underwear completely away, he lays a hot, open-mouthed kiss over her clothed sex.

“Incorrigible, cruel, _ heartless _ man,” Artemesia mutters breathlessly.

“Forgive me, love.” He drags the silk all the way down her legs, tosses it somewhere on the floor. “Long have I ached to touch you as I do now. Pray suffer me these brief indulgences. I shall make it worth your while.”

The sight of her bare before him robs his lungs of their air. A flush creeps hotly up his throat and over his cheekbones. G’raha scrapes his teeth at the crease of her hip just to hear the whimper it earns him. Her thighs part over his shoulders. He curls his tongue over the feverish pearl of her body.

The fragile “_Oh,_” that falls from her lips is punctuated with a sharp crack of thunder. Lightning dances over her face to reveal eyes shut tight and her mouth slack in sensation. A hand leaves his hair to clutch at the pillow under her head. The bone white grip of her knuckles feeds the fire coursing in his blood. The heady flavor of her coats his palate like a dark wine, earth and musk and salt. He is not a man who imbibes in spirits often but he could drown in her like this, until he is stupid and lost and giddy, so far gone he forgets to come up for air.

Artemesia sobs as he dips a finger inside of her. He rests his forehead against her belly for a moment, utterly shattered at the pure heat of her. Like this he can feel every contraction of her muscles, every breath that fights its way from her lungs. Another finger, and when he curls them up, up, _ up, _ drags the broad flat of his tongue over her core again, her hips all but lift off of the bed. A hand, blue with crystal, grounds her as she shakes. G’raha drinks in the desperate sounds that fall from her lips as greedily as he drinks the pleasure from her body.

He can feel her climax looming ever closer. Not unlike the familiar tension of a bowstring between his fingers, her body begins to draw tight around him. The pitch of her voice rises a half-step and he moans against her flesh. One more curl of his fingers, one more thrum of his tongue might be all it took, but before he can deliver her over that precipice she gently pushes his head away. Artemesia’s chest heaves as she looks down at him. Her eyes are hooded and dazed.

“No, no, not yet,” she says. G’raha’s breath returns to him in pants. He tries very hard not to pout at being denied the chance to see her come undone at his hand. Lifting himself to stand on his knees he locks his gaze with hers and slowly licks his fingers clean. His lips are slick with her when she pulls him in for a blistering kiss, relishing the taste of herself on his tongue. “And?” she asks. “Everything you dreamt of?”

“Oh, my love, you taste far sweeter than any fruit you could have plucked for me in the Source.”

She hums, seemingly satisfied with his answer. Impatient fingers itch at the hem of his own tunic. G’raha swallows, throat suddenly dry. He does not impede her as she drags the garment over his torso, even lifts his arms for her to pull it over his head, though as his body is bared to her he fights down the urge to shrink away. Artemesia’s eyes flicker over the marbled crystal. Swathes of it twist over his arm, across his collar bones and down one shoulder blade. A stray trail embeds itself between a pair of ribs. It all meets at his throat, climbing up over one side of his jaw to crawl across his left cheek. Streaked through with veins of gold, the crystal fairly glitters in the scarce light that trickles past the window.

“I realize it must be... unsettling at first glance.” An attempt at a chuckle comes out instead as a nervous, dry wheeze. “The magic provided to me by the Tower comes with a price. One I fear I had little choice but to pay.”

“Does it hurt?” she asks in an uncharacteristically small voice. G’raha smiles.

“No,” he reassures her. She takes his gemstone hand in hers, turns it over so that his palm faces up. The pad of her index finger slowly traces along a deep, aurum vein. “I can still feel much through it but the sensation is almost… dulled. Heat and cold are the strongest, and the rest is mostly pressure.”

Artemesia seems fascinated. Relieved as he is that she is not totally repulsed by his condition, the urge to hide himself still eats away at him. The hand that is yet flesh and blood clutches at his shoulder in a shy attempt to cover himself. She takes notice. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I only… I feel silly now, even as I think to say it.”

“Tell me.”

G’raha turns his head to look away from her, lest she catch sight of the beginnings of tears burning behind his eyes. He feels ashamed. Certain as he is in the knowledge that she would never spurn him for the magic encasing his body, his words feel almost unworthy of her. “I regret that I cannot come before you as the man you knew once before. When I was still… whole.”

“Oh, _ Raha_.”

“A ridiculous thought,” he mutters. Artemesia shakes her head. Her knuckles gently brush over his cheek and when he meets her eyes they are tender with concern.

“It is not ridiculous.” Her voice is soft, as soft as her lips on his forehead. “You _ are _ the man I knew once before, every bit of him. And you are indeed whole. Whether you were entirely flesh and bone or, or… made of straw, I don’t know!” That makes him laugh. “This,” she drags her fingers over the crystal decorating his collarbone, “has kept you safe and alive for one hundred years. If that is the price the Tower has demanded in order to see you safely to me then… I am _ grateful_. I will cherish it just as I cherish every other part of you.”

G’raha Tia loves her. He loves her so, so much he feels completely incapacitated by it, and in that moment she has never been more beautiful to him. The heart of this woman inspires him every step through their journey together. He has no doubt she will continue to do so until the end of his days.

“And…” Her hand presses against his chest. She gently coaxes him to lie back against her pillows, essentially reversing their roles from moments ago. Artemesia settles her body over his. He can feel the warmth of her soaking into him. “If I have to spend the rest of the night convincing you as such…” She trails wet kisses past his mouth, over his chin and down towards his throat. “... I will.”

Outside, the wind howls at them as if demanding to be let in. The deluge of rain yet beats away at the glass. They do little to drown out the trembling moan that tumbles from his lips at the raw cusp of her teeth. It was not a full bite, not by far, but it is enough to set his body on edge. His hands grip at her forearms as she laves her tongue over tender skin. There must surely be a mark there now. His head spins.

“G’raha?” she asks meekly.

“Again,” he keens. “_Please_.”

There is a beat of stillness between them, before she bows her head again to the meat of his shoulder. The prick of her fangs teases the skin there as she drags her canines ever so lightly across. His blood sizzles in his veins. He doesn’t think he’s ever been harder in his life.

Artemesia descends his torso and leaves a cherry-hued trail of bruises in her wake, each one nursed lovingly to life with careful lips and teeth. Her tongue flits over a nipple as she passes by and it earns her a stuttered hiss. She lingers there for a moment. G’raha thinks he might well burst into flames. He clutches at her, fingers trembling against the flexible line of her spine. She leaves his chest in favor of venturing lower. Muscles quiver under the whisper-soft curtain of her hair. Nails scratch through the thin, tapered trail of russet and silver that leads down into the waistband of his breeches.

“You’re shivering,” she murmurs into his hip. He can feel the damnable smirk plucking at her lips. “Still chilled from the rain?”

The soft plane of her belly drags over the hard line of him and he feels _ anything _ but chilled.

_ She will be the death of me_, he thinks. Centuries of slumber, a full-fledged calamity, a Flood of light and an Ascian’s bullet have failed to bring an end to his life, but as Hydaelen’s chosen lifts herself to straddle his body he is convinced that is what will finally stop his poor old heart in its tracks. She gazes down at him, eyes following her handiwork blooming fresh on his skin. Satisfied with what she sees. He is almost hesitant to breathe.

The solid weight of her as she sits back on his hips knocks the very wind from him. G’raha _ mewls_, means to stifle the sound with a hand but she snatches it away, planting a heartfelt kiss in the center of his luminescent palm. The divine heat of her sears itself over his flesh like a brand, even through his clothes. A tentative rock of his pelvis, born before he can think to restrain himself, and she gasps. He does it again, gently, just to see her eyelashes flutter.

“Artemesia.” His voice is hoarse as he says her name. He is pleading with her, begging even as he is lost for the words to say. He knows not what he means to ask for, only that she alone can give it. He rests a hand upon her thigh as her hips drag back over his, tearing needy sounds from him, dangerously close to tantalizingly slick flesh.

“Raha,” she sighs, nuzzling into the hand she holds close to her cheek. The crystal all but glows ghostly pale against her skin. He strokes his thumb over the bow of her lips, thrilled at the ardent kiss she bestows at his fingertip. “I… I want…”

“Yes?”

Her fingers twist themselves in the airy fabric of her shift. G’raha curses himself now for having left the garment on her person. He’d meant to tease, yes, but as fate would have it the tides have been turned on him. He longs to see her bare before him at long last, itches to map every inch of her skin. Too much to ask for all at once, perhaps, but he _ aches_.

“I want to feel you come inside me.”

Oh, _ wicked white_, he is fit to expire before her very eyes.

Ruby eyes follow her fingers as they trail down, down, down between her thighs. His mouth is a desert as he tries in vain to wet his tongue, gaze glued to where she touches herself. “I-is that wise?” he stutters.

“Well, I…” Artemesia laughs, apprehensive. “I may have taken certain… precautions.” Her eyes flicker behind him towards the bed-side table. G’raha turns his head to see a small, crystal phial, empty and unstoppered. Another flash of lightning streaks through the room, and as the following roll of thunder sounds his lust-addled mind comes to a sharp point. His eyes widen as he realizes. Heat scalds his cheeks as his blush takes on new colors. He buries his face in his hands, mortified and furious with himself. A muffled, pitiful sound warbles from his throat.

A damned fool, he was.

“A thousand, _ thousand _ apologies.” His ears flatten guiltily against his skull. “I am utterly undeserving of your affections. Truly, had you decided to throw me back out into the rain upon your waking it would have been entirely within your right.”

“Raha, please.” She giggles, her fingers gently prying his hands away. He grimaces as he opens his eyes. She simply gazes back at him, lovingly, her easy smile a great comfort to him. “It is no matter; you did not know, and you have long since been forgiven. We all lose track of time. And I would never, _ ever _ have thrown you back into the storm."

Artemesia leans forward to kiss the tip of his nose. He holds her close for a moment, kisses the cheerful line of her mouth. “To think, you had been waiting for me all evening to share your bed. And I was so abominably late.”

“Ah, but you are here now.” As if to bring him back to what they had been doing before his contrite reprieve, her hips shift back over the aching length of him. G’raha clings to her as she sits back, a queen taking her throne. There is renewed hunger in her eyes as she takes in the sight of him. Slowly, agonizingly, she inches his breeches down his legs.

There is something hallowed in the feel of her flesh upon his. He has never been a particularly religious man, but never before has he felt more inclined to offer himself in worship, to lay himself at the feet of another in an act of selfless reverence. Had he been the same brash boy she’d once known he would have taken her in that moment, crushed his lips to hers and swallowed down the cries from her lungs. His years have imbued him with incredible patience. Nurtured by a century of careful planning and arduous waiting, it is the only restraint that holds him back from the blessed warmth of her body.

He tugs at her chemise. “I want to see you,” he murmurs to her sweetly. She grins cheekily at him.

“But you seemed so fond of it before.”

“Please.” He sounds broken, he knows it, but he cares little. “I wish to see you. All of you.”

Artemesia nods. She pulls the shift over her head and carelessly tosses it away with the rest of their clothes. She _ glimmers _ in what weak moonlight has managed to peek its way through the storm clouds and in past the window. He devours her with his eyes: the fan of her ribs under her skin as they heave with her breath; the soft weight of her breasts, nipples peaked in the night air; the pulse jumping in the vulnerable line of her throat. G’raha does not know where to begin touching her. His hands itch to be everywhere at once. She takes pity on him. Gently lifts his crystalline palm to rest over her sternum. Her heart beats below as powerfully as the thunder roiling in the clouds outside.

“I love you,” he tells her. He knows not what else to say, for it is the only truth he can be certain of in that moment. She gifts him a heavy smile and for an instant he thinks he can see a misty shimmer in her eyes.

“And I love you.” She drops her head and he feels her fingers at his groin. The first touch to his heated flesh is dizzying and his hips jerk at the firm grip of her hand. The head of him glides over her core and she gasps. “Oh, my Raha.”

There is a dense ringing that takes up residence in his ears as he breaches her body. The patter of rain, the din of thunder, the rustling of sheets underneath them all seem to fade away until all that is left is his own ragged breathing. He needn’t listen for her heartbeat any longer as he can _ feel _ it inside of her, an essential rhythm he had no idea he’d been missing until now. She burns for him. Soft and hot and blindingly perfect.

Artemesia pants for air. Her jaw lies slack in pleasure, eyes fluttering closed. “Gods,” she whimpers, and lifts her hips but an ilm. G’raha bites his lip in an attempt to keep himself from holding her in place.

“Is it too much?” he asks, worried for a moment that he might actually be causing her discomfort. The anxiety fluttering in his breast waves away with the lazy shake of her head.

“No, no,” she tells him. “You feel exquisite and… _ gods_, I will not last long.”

He gives her a small buck of his hips and it knocks a long, drawn-out moan loose from her lungs. The sound raises all the fine hairs on his body at once. He does it again, tilts his pelvis up and up. She throws her head back, hair spilling over the wings of her shoulder blades like a pale, starlit waterfall.

G’raha trails his fingers up from her chest and over her gasping throat as she undulates above him. He touches her lips and she pulls his thumb between her teeth, sweeps her tongue over the pad of it. He can feel the devastating edge of her fangs but against the hard crystal they put up little fight. His other hand reaches for her breast and she holds him there against her. He thrusts in as steady a pace as he can manage and is grateful that she is already so close.

There is a hissing crackle in the air around them. Like a quiet chorus of lost voices, so soft he almost thinks he imagines it, muttering in a language lost to time. Wisps of rainbow-colored fire pop and fizz as soon as his eyes can follow them and he instantly knows what it is just by tasting it in the air. Her aether, swirling through the heavy cloud of their breath like smoke to envelope them both in an ancient mist of lavender and fuchsia and teal. Blue sparks at her fingertips jump across his skin and when he meets her eyes they are aglow. He trembles beneath her and wonders, secretly. Could he drive her into the dread wyrm’s trance with his body alone?

Another thought for another time.

Suddenly, the mystical lights extinguish. They dance behind his eyes after they are gone, and before long it is the twinge of ozone in the air instead of her primal magic. He feels the lean in her back before she doubles over him. A trickle of sweat drips slowly down from her throat and between her breasts. He bends forward to chase it with his tongue. The shift in his body under hers knocks her off balance but he is there to catch her in his arms. Gently, lovingly, he lifts her so that he may lay her upon her pillows. Artemesia seals her lips over his, tongue lashing against his teeth as he lifts one of her legs. The change in angle makes her _ sob_.

He breaks their kiss to whisper into the flickering fold of her ear. “My warrior, my hero,” he calls her. “Allow me the privilege of your undoing. I want to see you as you come, to hear my name on your lips.” His back straightens as he sits up on his heels, desperate to pull her down into bliss. She writhes against her sheets and when he sweeps his thumb over the pearl between her thighs she lets out a long, high moan that he is almost certain wakes her neighbors. She opens her eyes then and they are wild, wordlessly begging him. G’raha bows his head to her neck, opens his jaws and _ bites _ down over her pulse. It is more than just a mark to them, to their people and to Keepers especially. It is a promise.

A symphony wells up in her throat as she shatters all around him.

She calls his name. Her insides flutter, gentle at first and then crushing. He holds on with his teeth as Artemesia falls apart in his arms. Her body rolls like the storm clouds above them, dark and violent and every bit a force of nature. G’raha groans against her skin as he tries to fuck her through it, biting down until he thinks he can taste blood at the back of his tongue. Her fingers twist painfully in his silver-frosted hair. She pulls tight against his scalp and the sting brings tears to his eyes. He lets go, shocked at his own ferocity.

“Menphina’s moons, G’raha,” she gasps. Her voice is ragged as she tries to breathe around her words. “You mean to kill me. I knew it.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” She gasps as he shallowly thrusts into her, dazed in the aftershocks of her climax. “Well, yes, but… _ gods_, it was perfect.”

Her fingers trail down his middle until she reaches where they are still joined. She touches herself, sensitive as she is so soon after her peak, and the way she shivers around him rips an entirely undignified sound from his chest.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she whispers salaciously against his lips. G’raha bumps his forehead against hers, struggling to remember with his mind adrift in a haze of need. He swallows around his dry tongue. “I want you to come inside me.”

His next thrust is much harder than he had meant it to be. It makes her squeal. 

“I want to feel it. I want to feel _ you_.”

“Artemesia…”

He braces a hand against the wall behind her. The heady tension of lust low in his belly threatens to eat him alive as, for once, words fail him. G’raha kisses her one last time, drinks deep from her lips before she ducks down and sinks her long, jagged teeth into his shoulder. He shouts as the pain arcs through him like electricity. The headboard slams against the stone as he thrusts once, twice more before he comes, spilling himself at her core as lightning flashes behind his eyes. Thunder cracks one last time around them like cannonfire and as it breaks loud and suffocating around their ears she bites down harder. He grunts through clenched jaws, frightened by how much he _ relishes _ the agony behind it. It resonates through him body and soul, some deep-seated primal need to be branded, to be claimed. Artemesia pulls away and soothes over the wound with her tongue. A mark to match her own.

G’raha manages to avoid collapsing over her entirely but it is a near thing. He bites the inside of his cheek as he slips free from her body. Artemesia coaxes him onto his side so that she may weave kiss after kiss across his face. He laughs breathlessly, well and truly exhausted. An ache begins to make itself known in his hips and his lower back, and while it is a welcome soreness it serves to remind him, once again, of his years. Full prepared is he to settle in for sleep with the woman in his arms when she abruptly leaves their bed. His hand grasps after her in the dark.

“Love?” he calls after her, heart stuttering at the vulnerable sound of his voice.

“A bath, I think,” she says, lighting a candle. “I fear you may yet catch a chill from your promenade through the storm. You are still wet from the rain.”

He smirks to himself. “Amongst other things.”

The scandalized look she gives him only fuels his mirth. It takes great effort to drag himself out of the haven of sheets and pillows. He is rewarded with the sight of her naked in the candlelight, gazing at him fondly. Her hair is a veritable mess around her face, and he thinks he quite likes it that way.

G’raha helps her drag out the copper tub, helps her to draw hot water for it. She bids him to soak as she mills about the room for bottles and soaps. As reluctant as he’d been to leave the bed behind he has to admit the steaming water does much for his aching muscles and chilled limbs. He’d been able to chase the cold away while tangled in her arms, but eventually the stiffness in his toes had returned. He is blissfully warm now, even more so when his hero nestles herself in with him, her back flush against his chest. G’raha sighs, sated, and rests his chin on her shoulder.

“What is that you have there?” he asks. In her hand she holds one of the oranges from the basket, his gift from the Source.

“I felt that after that performance you deserved something of a reward.”

He hums. Gently sweeps her hair to one shoulder. “The work is reward enough in itself.”

It makes her laugh. Slowly, she begins to peel the orange in pieces. The rinds fall haphazardly into the bath. They perfume the water like fine soap, and soon the whole room is fragrant with the scent of ripe citrus. Artemesia gently pries a piece from the globe of fruit and offers it up to him between her fingers. He closes his lips around the orange, swiping his tongue over her fingertips as he pulls away. It bursts in his mouth, a sweet shock of flavor over his palate. He moans at the taste.

“As good as you remember?” she chuckles.

“_Y__es_.” He wipes at the juice on his face. “Though I would stand by what I said earlier: it pales in comparison to you.”

“Hmm, keep that up, my lord Exarch, and you shall have yourself another taste.”

The use of his title brings a blush to his cheeks. Artemesia pops a piece of orange into her mouth. A stray drop of the juice falls to her collar bone. His eyes track it as it rolls over her clavicle, down the valley of her breasts to disappear into the water. His lips follow the sticky sweet path it leaves on her skin. She giggles, turning her head to bump her nose against his. Affection wells warm behind his heart and he pecks a saccharine kiss over her mouth. She strokes a loving hand over his jaw and before long he is purring against her.

“I love you,” she whispers softly to him.

“And I you.”

They finish their orange, and then their bath, as the storm rages outside their window.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/despommess).


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